


Present company excepted

by hopefor46



Category: Pod Save America (RPF)
Genre: Angst, Friends With Benefits, Friends to Lovers, LA era, M/M, Outdoor Sex, Pining, Road Trips, WH flashbacks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-19
Updated: 2018-03-19
Packaged: 2019-04-04 12:34:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14020350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hopefor46/pseuds/hopefor46
Summary: “We’re just getting out of the city for a bit. You’ll like it. We’re just gonna chill.”Chillseems like the last thing from Jon’s mind, so Tommy throws in, “You can eat your poke bowl in the car on the way there.”“This really is an intervention. The old Tommy would never allow eating in his car.”





	Present company excepted

The decision is made that Jon Lovett needs a vacation.

He won’t admit it, of course. To him his latent bursts of humor are as sharp as ever. Only his best friends, Favs and Tommy, can tell his manic energy is fraying at the edges. Too many late-night shows chased with early-morning workouts. Too much Diet Coke and video gaming as a substitute for sleep. We all have our tells.

His friends meet without him one quiet morning in the office while he’s still hitting snooze, Pundit probably using his chest as a pillow. 

“Somewhere we can take away his phone,” Favs says. “Better yet, somewhere with no WiFi and shitty service.”

“I know just the place, says Tommy, setting his iced coffee down and starting to Google.

“Next weekend we’re off and he tapes Thursday. Is he going anywhere?”

“Going where?” Lovett crashes in.

“Nowhere,” Favs recovers nicely, texting Emily for the passcode to Lovett’s phone so he can flip through his calendar later. Sure enough, an open space. Tommy makes the reservation. Then Favs remembers his cousin’s daughter’s baptism in Phoenix that weekend.

“I got it,” Tommy says, feeling an odd prickle to his skin. “You guys go.”

“A 3-hour drive, though? Are you sure you’re gonna survive? We can’t be down a founder.”

“He’ll behave.” Tommy changes the reservation from a 3-bedroom cabin to a 2-bedroom.

Always game for a caper, Emily agrees to take Lovett’s spare key and let herself into his house to pack for him while he’s at the Improv. Tommy felt maybe it would be too much for him to go as well. Besides, Emily knows all of his favorite things. When she texts mid-errand “Swim trunks too?” he feels his own irrational blush radiating through the phone. Has to duck behind his monitor and pretend like he dropped something. 

 **Love that you’re doing this** she texts him later.

**He’s gonna have a great time**

**...After a few hours**

Tommy would never call Jon self-absorbed exactly, but he doesn’t exactly notice when his Friday is taken over by a long and nondescript meeting block and some of his stuff is missing. To be fair, it’s been a long few weeks between the Mueller indictments and the off-terms in Virginia and New Jersey. So when Tommy throws him a casual “Wanna get lunch?” Jon all too readily accepts. As usual, Tommy drives.

“Wanna go to that new poke place on Westminster?”

“Finally, you’re giving it another try.”

“I try to keep an open mind.” Tommy looks down at his perfectly functional phone, feigns frustration. “Shit, my phone wasn’t charging in there. Mind if I use yours for the directions?”

Lovett tosses it over. “I _guess_ I can survive without Twitter for fifteen _minutes_ , but if Tim starts a neg war I can’t respond to, it’s your fault.”

“My fault,” Tommy echoes, hiding a smile.

“Let’s just pick up, then we can head back and I can bounce some ideas off you for a new game about Rex Tillerson.” Tommy watches him scrolling while in line.

Out in the parking lot he reaches out for the phone again. “Just one more time so I can check traffic on the way back.”

“Sure, ya space cadet,” Jon smirks, passing it back to him. “Just don’t get geopolitically confused and take us back to the White House.” It’s 12:37 and they’re right on schedule.

“Think I know a short cut,” Tommy says, trying not to laugh. He props Jon’s phone on the dash in the usual way.

“Don’t know why you bros are so attached to your iPhones when there’s a clearly superior option out there.” This is a familiar subject of Lovett’s rants, distracting him for just long enough that Tommy’s able to get back on the highway going the wrong direction and get ahead of him. It’s such a thrill being two steps ahead of Jon. It doesn’t happen all that often.

“Hey Tommy? Not to critique your driving, which I would _never_ do--”

“--Says the guy who hit a parked car 2 weeks ago--”

“--Trying not to hit a seagull. But are you sure this is the quickest way to the office?”

“Mmm,” Tommy fake considers. “Nope.”

“Where are we going? Are we doing an errand you forgot to mention to me?”

“Mmmm. Nope.”

“Are you _kidnapping_ me? Tommy Vietor. I am a high worth individual! I host a very popular podcast!”

“You don’t have a show tonight,” Tommy murmurs.

“I’m putting myself back in charge here,” Lovett huffs, lunging for the dash, but Tommy beats him--scoops up Jon’s phone and drops it into his car door pocket. “Now what’d you do _that_ for.”

“No more phone time for you.”

“Okay, very funny. Are you going to pull over?”

Tommy very deliberately focuses on the lane lines in front of him. “No, we’re on our way.”

“This is incredible.” Tommy won’t let himself look over at Jon to see how mad he is. “Please exit at the nearest so I can grab my phone back because if I’m not getting kidnapped I have some strongly worded messages to send.”

“Stop it. We’re _worried_ about you.”

“Huh?”

“We’re worried.” Tommy feels that ache in his sinuses he always gets when he tries to express a feeling around Lovett, but it’s okay. This’ll be the worst part. “We see you. You’ve been pulled six ways from Sunday--”

“--what does that _mean_ , I don’t speak New England--”

\--and you’re running a little ragged. Last week you left the office without Pundit.”

“That was _one time!_ And I knew you bozos would take care of her for me.”

“Your cofounder and I decided you need a break, so now you’re gonna get one. No work and no phone,” Tommy snaps.

“Are you _serious_?” Jon huffs. “But my brand! I’m a mogul now! I have important business.” He punctuates these words with his palm clapping on Tommy’s thigh, which doesn’t really calm Tommy down, but at least it distracts him.

“Sorry, we voted and... you lost,” Tommy runs out of steam suddenly.

“That’s not fair. That’s not how this partnership even works!” Jon’s brow is furrowed and he looks just on the edge of really mad. Cash app wine mad.

“Listen.” It’s a mercy to keep his eyes on the road, Tommy thinks. “We’ve all been burning the candle at both ends lately, and we thought it would be a good break for you. It’s not that we think you can’t handle it, or anything like that.”

“What about Pundit? My silent angel--”

“Emily’s going to take her over to Nikki’s when she takes Leo. She’ll be having fun. Don’t worry. It’s only for the night.”

“Can you at least tell me where we’re going?”

“We’re just getting out of the city for a bit. You’ll like it. There’s a pool. We’re just gonna chill.” _Chill_ seems like the last thing from Jon’s mind, so he throws in, “You can eat your poke bowl in the car on the way there.”

“Whoa, this really is an intervention. The old Tommy would never allow eating in his car.”

“Just pass me my wrap when you get a minute.”

“Maybe I should just eat it, that’s what you deserve.”

“Surely you don’t mean that,” Tommy drawls. Jon hands it over with his brows knitted.

“You know I’m going to be disgusting,” Jon says. “I just have these clothes--”

“--Taken care of.”

“How many co-conspirators did you have in this?” Tommy beams at him and says nothing. “Look at you, all smug.” But Tommy can tell he’s not as mad any more. Jon’s rage is like the thunderstorms in Iowa, as brief as they are severe.

A few forkfuls into his lunch, Jon casually throws out, “Oh hey, if you need me to look up directions, just let me know!”

“Nice try,” Tommy smirks out at the westbound lanes.

 

 

The 29 Palms Inn isn’t exactly the middle of nowhere, but it’s pretty close. The drive from the county highway is nearly a mile and Tommy relaxes into the turns. After nearly an hour of ranting, Jon dozed off; now he’s looking out the window, befuddled by the scenery.

“What _is_ this place? Some kind of survivalist bunker?”

“Military town, mostly.” He pulls up in front of check-in -- one of several small cabins encircling the main building with the hotel restaurant -- and turns the car off decisively. “We’re here!” he says, like his dad would do after long trips.

Lovett trails him into check-in, and Tommy can see rather than feel his eyes darting around nervously. It’s decidedly homespun, no water cooler or bellhops. There’s a rack of brochures for tourist attractions, most of them involving mining or taking a helicopter somewhere else.

As her credit card machine slowly cranks through its cycle, the clerk tells Tommy about the dry summer they’ve had, the currents of desert air.

“You’ll probably see the heat lightning,” she tells him. Tommy arranges his face into listening mode while darting his eyes over to Lovett, who appears to be comparing two separate providers for rodeo shows. “It’s what always happens when it’s this dry. It’s not dangerous. You probably don’t get that much down in--” she picks up his form again, studying it closely. Tommy thought maybe that would be confidential. “Los Angeles?”

“Nope,” Tommy says blandly. “My friend and I don’t get out much.”

“Speak for yourself” is the first thing Jon says to him as the screen door slams behind them.

“What?”

“I _do_ get out. We both do. The tours and all!”

“Point taken.” Small talk was always lost on Lovett.

Their squat orange cabin, surrounded by a goofy shoulder-height wall, rides the northwestern edge of the property. Tommy unlocks the door and shows Jon in, expansively.  

“Our home away from home.” Jon nods slowly, sleepily. “Ready to go to the pool?”

“I don’t have my…”

“Yes you do.”

“What am I gonna do by a pool?”

“You were packed a book, as I understand it.”

“What’s a book?”

“Last one changed gets thrown in,” Tommy says with a wink, picking a bedroom at random. After he gets changed he sits outside in the lone lounge chair on their enclosed porch, finding it strange that someone would create a porch so small only one person could enjoy it at once.

Lovett dawdles in the cabin so long Tommy worries he’s found a secret Internet source to tap into, before he realizes that Jon doesn’t have his phone. He locked their phones in the glove compartment when they stopped for gas in Ontario, while Jon was inside buying Diet Coke.

Finally he stumbles out onto the porch. “Do you have sunscreen? The Tsarina forgot to pack me any.”

“You figured out it was her?”

“Her taste was too evident.”

Tommy waves a spray can at him. “You can borrow mine if you do my back for me.”

“Ugh, no.”

“Okay.”

Hemmed in by the other main buildings at the inn, the pool is a little rectangular jewel, evenly deep. There’s a family set up at one end in a nest of towels, but otherwise it’s empty.

Jon dutifully lathers up to the edge of his sleeves, the nape of his neck. Tosses the can to Tommy, who immediately takes his shirt off. Jon sighs in mock frustration.

“What?”

“What yourself,” Jon scoffs, but he doesn’t look away.

“We’re by a pool. It’s normal. Besides, you told me my abs were boring.” He can’t help but smile, remembering. Tommy’s never told anyone because it would be too hard to explain, when they were in bed in Tommy’s old apartment, Jon’s hand reading his stomach like a topographical map. Tommy had laughed until he was wheezing and tearing up.

Jon studies him carefully for a long moment, then raises his eyes to the sky dramatically, like he’s worried Tommy won’t notice. “I guess I’ll do your back for you if you need me to. My hands are already greasy anyway.” Tommy tries to hold perfectly still, maintain the posture the guys in the office give him shit for. Jon’s hands are so warm.

Sunscreen dutifully applied, Jon pushes his hat over his face, curls into the fetal position and almost immediately nods off. Tommy’s settled in with the new Ulysses S. Grant biography, but he’s too restless to read more than a few pages.

With his sunglasses on, he watches Jon sleep. He finds it weirdly soothing to watch his chest rise and fall, regular and soft. To see him still, not constantly shifting and squirming to be slightly more comfortable. He looks younger when his defenses are down. That’s one reason he has them in the first place; Tommy knows all too well.

When he wakes up he’ll be grumpy, like he always is. He’ll decry the way his hat ruined his unruly hair. He’ll probably complain that Tommy didn’t wake him up earlier.

Tommy sighs and shoves the book back into his Last Bookstore bag. It’s still warm, he should at least try the water. The family they were sharing with is long gone, the kids collapsed in whining, having to be carried away. He tries to picture himself taking his kids here, one day. Chasing after them, yelling at them not to touch the cacti. Catching them when they jump off the edge.

The pool’s too small to do proper laps, so Tommy takes his time crossing, plunging to the bottom like when he was a kid. Holding his breath, feeling the pleasant burn in his lungs like from running up hills. When he surfaces, he floats on his back, looking at the unbroken sky.  

In D.C. it was a luxury to chuck his Blackberry in a locker and carve out several laps, away from MSNBC and attached statements and (worse) the prying eyes of the opposition. In the water everything was so quiet. California offers so much breathing room, sometimes Tommy forgets that that used to be his universe.

Jon can kick and scream all he wants, but he was the one back in their White House days who was always checking up on everybody, yanking at Tommy’s arm until he agreed to come home for a beer, or pick a Smithsonian museum at random to wander through, or watch a YouTube compilation of corgis falling over. Sometimes it was weird how he knew how to stop by. The years have made them both more guarded, but it’s not like Jon forgot how to read things, especially now that they work in a glass box together.

Floating along the bottom again, he sees a dark shape towards the other end of the pool, which resolves into a set of feet and legs. He comes up for air. It’s Jon, looking--lonely?--with his feet in the water. Tommy regards him carefully, suddenly self-conscious that his hair is all slicked down with the chlorine.

“Don’t splash me,” Jon says.

“Okay.” Tommy flips on his back and floats, pushing himself away from the edge gently.

“And I’m not going in,” Jon calls out to him.

“You’re missing out.”

“Stop making me talk to your abs.”

“No one’s making you, dude.”

Tommy finally drags himself out while there are still fingers of sun for him to dry off in. Jon’s actually reading the _Rolling Stone_ biography Emily packed for him.

As the sun approaches the hills they order Mediterranean pizza from the hotel restaurant and rest the box on the end of Tommy’s lawn chair, eating over it like at the office.

“So what’s the nightlife like around here?”

“Well, there is one bar within walking distance.”

“Uber?”

“Haven’t tried, but not likely.”

“Palm Springs?”

“Is an hour away, we drove through it, remember?”

“I was zoning out. What’s this one bar like?”

 

 

 

The bar is the kind of dive priced out of almost everywhere in Los Angeles--cash only, gritty floors, neon beer company signs, a shot and a beer special. It reminds Tommy of Iowa, only with opposite weather. A few resentful locals post up at one end of the bar while the tables are occupied by what Tommy thinks are bored recruits from the military base nearby. He knows it’s not Jon’s thing, but Jon raises his eyebrows and sallies forth. He catches Tommy watching him, bemused.

“What? You think I haven’t been to a local watering hole in my day? I can roll with this.”

“Didn’t say you couldn’t,” Tommy says, trying to catch the bartender’s eye.

“Lots of bars on Long Island are scarier than this one,” Jon huffs. “Anyway, since you’ve deprived me of _ev_ erything else, the least you could do is ply me with your company and also shots.” Tommy shrugs and orders, two shots of whiskey and two Miller Lites. He organizes them neatly in front of Jon.

“Whiskey, really? Is it going to be _that_ kind of night?” His eyebrows arch playfully.

“Not sure what kind,” Tommy says truthfully.

“I hate to admit, but this is actually pretty relaxing. I’m not going to say I needed it, but it’s not bad.”

“Glad you’re kind of, sort of enjoying yourself.”

“I did miss my phone with that sunset.”

“You can catch it tomorrow on Instagram.” They clink their shot glasses together, Jon chasing his with a long swallow. He eyes Tommy suspiciously.

“Somehow I suspect you’re not having as much fun as I am.”

“Oh, I am,” Tommy smiles with a corner of his mouth. “Don’t worry about me.” When Jon sets his pint glass down his hands fly to Tommy’s throat so quickly Tommy doesn’t have time to step back.

“God, you.” He undoes a button. “This isn’t rolling off Capitol Hill here. You could do with some loosening up. What are you, hiding a bad sunburn?” Tommy hopes the bar’s just dark enough that the blush around his throat doesn’t show. He can still feel where Jon’s hand brushed against him, hot and confusing.

“Okay, do I look Western enough now?”

“No, but that’s better. Show off that _musculature_ of yours.” Jon winks, but he’s terrible at it. Tommy snickers.

“I’m going to check out the jukebox,” he says turning away, putting his hands in his pockets. It’s an electronic model, surprisingly modern, seemingly little used by the locals dourly clustered at the far tables. His face cools but he has no idea what he walked over to play, so he picks the most obvious choice. It starts magisterial and hushed, like the desert itself.

When Jon catches on he slaps the bar in mock frustration. “U2? Really? A little on the nose, don’t you think?”

“They’ve gotta be used to it by now.”

“Ugh. So classic.”

“Joshua Tree’s not that far from here, actually.”

“Well, maybe we can go tomorrow while I wile away the horrible hours of my confinement.”

“You looked pretty happy napping by the pool this afternoon.”

“Tell me you didn’t take a picture.”

“Hmm.” Tommy signals for another round and feels the corners of his mouth turning up. He really is more relaxed. Forcing Jon to go analog makes him feel good, no matter how many times Jon told him on the drive up that it was an outrageous thing to do to another adult.

“Well, maybe we can see the park tomorrow. Want me to look it up?” Jon bumps into Tommy’s side and presses into his thigh, locating the pocket, trying to make it look like an accident. “Rats. Had to try.” He grazes Tommy’s leg again on the way back.

“At least offer to buy a round first,” Tommy jokes with the most gentle hip check. Feeling so casual, a little dangerous.

“Fine. Let me see about that jukebox.”

Jon subjects the bar to several obscure 80s hits. For some reason, the hits are louder--”Got to let the city slickers know they have their money’s worth!” Jon crows--so they have to lean their heads in closer to be heard. Have to scoot their stools together. Knock knees a little. Through all of it, Jon chatters blithely, seemingly revived by his poolside nap. Tommy lets him play out his thoughts.

Jon definitively places one elbow on the bar and says “I’m having fun, Tommy.”

“Just like the old times,” Tommy agrees. “Except I don’t have to run off to a Sit Room after this.”

“Good, ‘cause you’re a little drunk.”

“Which makes you--what, exactly?”

“Maybe the same. Shall I get us another round?”

Tommy nods and stalks off to the jukebox again. He plugs in a lot of old songs, classic rock he used to sing along in the car to with his dad, pop tunes he heard on the campaign trail over and over again till he knew every dumb lyric. His hand stops on an album cover with a man in a suit. Odd that they would have something this recent.

It’s stupid how a song can hold him captive, even after so long. They’d been listening to this song at a party, back in D.C. That night when Jon leaned in just a little too far, and Tommy shocked himself by closing the distance. Both of them hedging, waiting to declare it had been an accident, meaning no such thing. It could have been a clumsy head-bump in a dark hallway plenty big enough for two to pass. Instead it was a hallway, then a cab, then the front hall tripping over shoes and umbrellas. Then Tommy’s bed. Both of them shaking like they were trying to make it irreparable, to separate the before and after. Jon looking up at him fiercely, waiting for him to say something, but Tommy didn’t know the line. Only held him, stroking up and down his chest, until he was losing control, his voice a high-pitched whisper, giving away everything. Jon kept shaking even as Tommy folded him in to spoon, staring at the back of his dear neck in the velvet dark. Wondering how long he’d been hiding this desire from himself.

(“Where do you go to relax?” he’d once had a therapist ask him. “What do you picture?”)

They didn’t talk about it, not when Jon moved to L.A., not when Tommy moved to San Francisco. Certainly not when they were in the same city again. Just there were some nights between them, that no one knew--at least, no one Tommy had told. There would have been more, if it were up to Tommy, but one time Jon made a snide remark about how he was “just between ladies again.” After that, Tommy stopped trying, even when he wanted to the most. That was two years ago.

Tommy shakes his head fast to clear the picture. Automatically his fingers wander back to the numbered keys and key in the single.

“I bet you’ve dialed in some crowd-pleasers,” Jon says when Tommy gets back to their drinks. “The Springsteen of it all.”

Tommy mock winces. “‘Born to Run’ is an American classic. Just ask anyone in this bar.”

“Quick question, why aren’t Boston bros into Boston? Seems like a perfect fit.”

“I could throw some in if you’re so inclined.”

“Ew.”

Pretty soon, that familiar bass line runs through the bar. Tommy gets a chill, even though it’s a warm night.

“Wait--is this yours?” Jon smiles. “How did you find this?”

“Just flippin’ through.” Tommy forces his voice to sound casual. Jon could have forgotten that night, specifically.

“I heard this band got back together,” Jon says, re-arranging their discarded shot glasses so they’re in rows, two by two.

“Did they?” He watches Jon’s hands. Even in the dark, Tommy is a terrible liar. The voice on the track is reedy, distant: _Present company, best that you can find._

“Weren’t they just on tour over the summer?”

“Dunno,” Tommy lies again. They were playing the Palladium in a few weeks, in fact. He’d thought about buying tickets. Posting a photo of the crowds, a video of the band.

“It’s weird,” Jon continues seemingly without course, “when a band you like breaks up, and it’s a big deal, and then they get back together just like nothing happened.”

“I mean, a lot of bands do it.”

“Yeah, but,” Jon digs in, “like bands _we_ know. From when we were--younger. Not, like, Fleetwood Mac for the 80th time.” He looks down and smiles.

“We’re getting older,” Tommy says obviously. _Don’t you want me to wake up? Then give me just a bit of your time._

Jon looks up at him and laughs drily. “Not that I’d complain about Fleetwood Mac.”

“Mmm.” Maybe later, when Jon inevitably gets distracted, when Tommy can’t hold his attention any more, he’ll put a little on. Then Jon can’t yell at him for being too attentive.

“Gotta respect a band like that,” Jon says like he’s sure, but his eyes are darting from place to place. Nervous. “They had all their breakups, but they worked it out in the end.”

Tommy leans in, narrows his fingers together in front of Jon’s face. “You are complaining _a little_.”

Jon looks away. “Now it’s really like old times.” His eyes meet Tommy’s again, feverish. “Is it because you remembered?”

Tommy feels a blip of dizziness he knows isn’t the whiskey. Grabs his own thigh and squeezes. Nods and swallows. “You, uh, want another--”

Jon breaks first, hops off his stool and leaves his beer on the bar. “Come outside with me a sec.”

The stars roll out unbroken over the city, and it’s so dark, a dark he could never find in L.A. Jon swings around the back of the bar and Tommy goes without question, the hotel up the hill in front of them.

The door of the bar swings shut, reducing the music to an irregular thunk. Without the bar and the drinks, Jon studies his hands and then looks up.

“You know, I didn’t listen to that one, for a while,” he says softly, even though they’re the only ones around. By the neon lights from the bar his face looks suddenly younger again, just like by the pool. His body is a question mark. They’re on solid ground, but Tommy feels like they’re balancing on the edge of a cliff, waiting for Jon to push him off.

“It’s still playing,” Tommy says quietly, looking down the road.

“Didn’t you want to hear the rest of it?”

“Did you?”

“It’s okay,” Jon says. He steps closer to Tommy, just a few inches. Tommy studies his eyelashes, the apples of his cheeks. It’s a face he could draw from memory, if he could draw at all. The kind of face a person could look at every day, and he does, but not like this.

“You know why I didn’t listen to it?” Jon’s eyes are bright, almost defiant. Tommy has to look away for a minute, his pulse starting to pick up. There are so many things he wants to say, and they all seem wrong.

“Tommy? I can refresh your memory,” Jon says. “If you want.” He rests his hand on Tommy’s shoulder and tilts his face up.

“I want,” Tommy mumbles, and Jon crushes his mouth to his. He tastes so warm and comforting, one of his hands coming up to stroke Tommy’s neck, a thumb pressing into his jaw. Tommy feels himself shiver and pulls Jon’s head in, parting from him just to meet his lips again. Doesn’t stop until Jon pulls away and holds his upper arms.

“Do you remember,” Jon says, breathless, lips wet, “how to get back to the place? ‘Cause I do _not_.” It all makes so little sense, the bar and the night and the desert, that Tommy finds himself laughing.

“It’s a straight shot,” he manages to get out.

“Stop oppressing me for having no sense of direction,” Jon retorts, but he crowds into Tommy as they walk back, bumping his arm at intervals too regular to be accidental. Tommy makes a show of throwing an arm, easy, over Jon’s shoulder, feeling how neatly he fits under his arm, how Tommy’s fingers belong in the hollow of his neck. He’s just tipsy enough that these coincidences seem momentous.

“How long do you think that bar has… _holy shit!_ ” Jon swings him westward and points at the hills, where as Tommy watches a streak of yellow shears the sky.

“Whoa.”  The events of the past few minutes have cleaned Tommy out of superlatives.

“Whoa yourself. That must be the heat lightning they were telling us about at check-in.”

“Huh.”

“You thought I wasn’t paying attention. I was hoping they would slip me the WiFi when your back was turned.” Another bolt cracks the sky open, making the air feel even more charged, crackling. “I hope it’s not _dangerous._ ”

“What are the odds,” Tommy mumbles, shifting just a little closer to him.

“Unless, like, you’re into that. The whole menaces of nature thing. You Boy Scout.” Tommy kisses his forehead.

“Only one way to find out.” Jon cocks his head up and slowly raises his eyebrows. It’s maybe Tommy’s favorite expression on him. He takes a second to look, and then he’s leaning in again like gravity demands, finding Jon’s mouth eager and open. Free of the bar noise and the parking-lot lights, Jon throws his arms around Tommy’s neck, struggling to get closer, deeper, though his hands are balled into fists like he doesn’t want to get too comfortable.

After a few minutes--or centuries, who cares--Jon moves his head away and whispers, “We should get back.” The whisper travels straight to Tommy’s cock. He’d forgotten how even the prospect of this could get him so worked up.

Jon lets Tommy pull him in by one arm again until they get back to their cabin with its little patio encircled by shoulder-height walls. Jon leans against the front door waiting for Tommy to close the gate behind them.

“It’s still going on,” Jon says, and maybe it’s Tommy’s imagination that he sounds a little breathless. “Look, I can see it.” Tommy jerks away from Jon’s dark eyes and wet mouth, looking over his shoulder obediently. When he turns back, Jon must see it in his eyes, because he extends his hands and pulls Tommy in right there in the open air. Tommy draws a careful line with his mouth from Jon’s lips, over his rough cheek, down his neck. Circles back to the spot under his ear that he likes.

“Fuck, Tommy,” Jon says hoarsely. His hands are under Tommy’s shirt, pinching and pulling him by the waist. Tommy hopes it leaves a mark, something he can look at tomorrow when he thinks this was all a fever dream. He bites Jon’s earlobe and Jon whines high, letting his head fully drop back against the door.

“Still watching?” he says low in Jon’s ear, feeling him shiver, then drag Tommy’s face back to his, let his tongue seek a hold in Tommy’s mouth. Then it’s Tommy’s turn to feel a full-body shiver, such that he needs to brace himself with one arm over Jon’s head.

He’s still gripping the key to the cabin, knows dimly how he should employ it, but he can’t bear to break them apart for one second. While they’re both crazy for it, while the air is crackling like it is. He shoves the key in his pocket and uses that hand to skate over Jon’s shorts, making an embarrassingly loud groan when he finds Lovett hard against his fly.

“Oh my God,” Lovett says, as if from far away.

“Will you let me,” Tommy says, and finding himself unable to complete the whole sentence, drops to his knees on the welcome mat. Scrunches up Jon’s shirt and kisses his belly, warm and oddly fragrant of sunscreen and leather and something spicy and dark. He remembers to look up and sees Jon watching him, mouth agape as he slides Jon’s shorts down.

“Jesus Christ.” Tommy rubs his cheek against Lovett’s fly, feeling the damp spot where he’s straining against the fabric. He looks up again to see Jon swallow hard, panting and wild. He pulls Jon’s cock out of his shorts, thick and standing upright, and licks around the head slowly, looking up at Jon.

Jon moans, “You’re gonna kill me,” and then he loses his words as Tommy draws his mouth down over his cock. Tommy feels a pulse in his dick every time he moans, tries to focus on the task at hand.

It’s been a while and Tommy struggles to get the angle right, just for a second, letting his right hand help. He jams his left hand into his shorts, giving in to his own desperation. If they got caught… He takes Jon in deeper, thinking of it. Keeps dragging his eyes upward. He remembers Jon likes it when Tommy looks.

It’s not what he’d pictured, taking Jon apart against their door where anyone would see, but it’s a dirty thrill--that Jon, so closed to him these past few years, could let himself be this open, even for a few minutes. Could want Tommy this much, want him _back_.

“Fuck, I, fuck,” Jon pants, tapping him on the shoulder. Tommy uses his other hand to brace on Jon’s hip as Jon convulses and, finally, comes hot and salty into Tommy’s mouth. He never told Jon how much he loved tasting it, but now he lets his eyes flutter shut for a moment, remembering the taste, imprinting it to his mind.  
When he pulls off and wipes his mouth Jon is looking down at him, disbelieving.

“Holy shit. _Holy shit._ You gotta--” Jon sticks his hands down, helps Tommy up. “I never--” He looks at Tommy like he’s never seen them before.

“Uh, your--” Tommy points to Jon’s shorts, still puddled at his feet. As Jon bends down to get them, Tommy fumbles in his pocket for the key, his fingers wet and clumsy. His hand is shaking as he fits the key in. He puts a steadying hand on Jon’s shoulder as he turns the doorknob and lets them both in. Jon walks backwards, still keeping his eyes on Tommy.

The cabin hasn’t changed since they left for dinner, but suddenly Tommy feels too big and awkward for the space. He’s still so turned on he feels like he _can’t breathe_ , but he doesn’t have the words--what are words anyway?--now that they’re not touching, he doesn’t know what they are.

His only consolation is that Lovett looks as confused as he does. Tommy raises his hands, and then drops them onto his thighs, the sound echoing loud in the room. His mouth opens and closes, trying to form the words: _will you come in with me?_ Or maybe just _Bed?_ But his lips won’t do what he tells them to. So Tommy very deliberately pivots and walks into the room where he left his bag this morning. Digs out one of the older Pod shirts to sleep in, peels out of his sandy clothes.

Jon’s “Hey” behind him makes the back of his neck crackle. Tommy looks back.

“Didn’t kiss me goodnight,” Jon says with one corner of his mouth pushed up, his eyes still wide with disbelief. Time seems to shimmer and bend as he presses his lips to Tommy again and again, pulls him toward the bed. Wiggles out of his own shorts and shirt, allowing Tommy to feel his hot warm chest against him. Tommy cries out when Jon reaches down between them and grips him firmly.

“You really--” Jon says gasping, stroking Tommy so hard it’s almost painful. Tommy groans and lets himself follow the feeling, his hips stuttering upward. “Did you want to get caught,” Jon says low in his ear. _Fuck_ , he thinks, but he can feel his body tensing up in response, about to let go. “You were so good,” and Tommy comes with a whimper, spattering his chest and Jon’s, seeing spots even in the dark.

 

 

In the morning, Tommy goes for a run on the roads encircling the inn, figuring Lovett will sleep for a few more hours. There are no sidewalks so he runs along the opposite shoulder, making sure oncoming traffic can see him.

When he gets back to the hotel he makes a pit stop at his car to grab his phone. A couple of group updates, nothing major. Favs sends a few warm, bubbly hopes that they are fully relaxed, complete with a string of umbrella-drink emojis. Tommy’s fingers pick out the cactus, the swimmer, the devious moon face.

It all feels like a regular morning till he finds himself in front of the door again. It’s painted a Western turquoise, not that Tommy noticed last night, and he has to tear his eyes away.

He showers and then, carefully, because their cabin only has one hard-looking chair, edges back onto the bed where Lovett’s still curled up. Half an hour later he rolls over violently, looking irritated.

“Admit it. You’ve been up for hours reading all the tweets you won’t _let_ me read.”

“Nope.” Tommy flashes him the screen of his phone, points at the little airplane in the corner. Jon lunges for it, capsizing over Tommy’s chest (a sweet weight that makes his breath catch). But Tommy’s arms are longer and he keeps it just out of reach. His other hand he wraps around Jon, just in case he makes another dive for it.

“Why are you torturing me, Tommy? Why are you torturing _yourself_?” Tommy smiles into his hair.

“You just don’t want to admit that sometimes I know what’s best for you.” Jon twists his face up to look into Tommy’s eyes.

“I don’t,” he says with sweet savagery, “and I won’t.”

“Fair enough. I’ll just feel superior all on my own.” Tommy drops his phone, hopefully far enough under the bed that Jon can’t reach but not so far that he won’t find it later.

“Still, it’s not a bad way to be deprived of the civilized world,” Jon says with a wink. He’s still so terrible at winking. Tommy ought to show him.

“You’re bad at winking, anyone ever tell you that?”

“I am not.”

“I’ll show you.” Tommy brings his left hand to Jon’s face, the too-familiar coarseness of his stubbly cheek.  “Okay, try it again.”

“I _can’t_ , your big paw is there.”

“This’ll help. Do it.” He feels Jon’s eyelashes flutter against his hand. So light and so close.

“No, you’re just blinking on both sides. A wink is one side.”

Jon screws up his face in mock frustration. “Like that?” Another flutter.

“Still both.” He feels the worst kind of transparent now, just blatantly gazing into Lovett’s eyes, not even trying to look away.

“Maybe I just don’t have the _gene_. You WASP bros and your _talents_.” Tommy takes his hand away, but he doesn’t know what to do with it, so he just sets it flat on the mattress, palm up. Unnatural.

Jon puts his hands down to scoot up so he’s flush with Tommy’s hips. He’s still looking at Tommy, mischievous. “Now you show me.”

Tommy complies. “Nothing to it,” he says stupidly, feeling his own cheeks go hot.

“Do it again.” This time, Tommy turns his head a little, tries to make it look deliberate. It’s hopeless, he thinks. He must look so dumb, like that cartoon skunk in the Looney Tunes. But Jon throws back his head and laughs hard, with his mouth open, and Tommy can feel it against his chest. He’s helpless for this.

Is it weird to fall in love with someone for the way they laugh at you?

“Tommy,” Jon says, tearing up laughing, “you look so…”

“So what?” But Jon ducks down and kisses him so their teeth click together softly, one hand pressed to his chest. They make out lazily, the room feeling warmer and warmer till Tommy’s forehead is again dripping with sweat, which he hopes Jon doesn’t see.

It’s chaotic the way they seem to be touching in eight places at once, hips and hands and thighs and lips. Tommy doesn’t know what to focus on, until the dip of Jon’s hips becomes more focused and he begins to grind slowly against Tommy. It’s so good and agonizing, until Jon speeds up and Tommy wonders if he’s going to black out just from the friction, if he’ll ever be able to get out of bed again.

“Is it good,” Jon says, before he chokes and muffles his mouth against Tommy’s collarbone, jerking over him like he can’t help himself. When he opens his eyes, sweaty curls hanging over his forehead, he pushes one leg up so Tommy can thrust against it and slips one wet hand down below Tommy’s balls, stroking and pressing, unbearable.

Tommy has the fleeting thought that all the other cabins _might_ be able to hear them, and then he’s coming so hard he’s shouting, undone for Jon. Maybe he falls back asleep with Jon's warmth on top of him. Maybe they both do. 

 

They drive through a little corner of Joshua Tree to a look out. “So we can say that we went,” Jon declares. Tommy thinks: _Who cares?_ He takes several photos of Jon when Jon’s not looking--Jon stretching next to a saguaro, Jon tiny and silhouetted against a rock.

Eventually Jon catches him and says “Those better not be for blackmail!” As revenge, he makes Tommy stand in front of the park’s wooden sign, fiddling with the camera for so long Tommy’s convinced he opened Twitter instead.

“Hey, no cheating!” He feels faintly ridiculous and sun-dopey, standing out here by himself as families file past to the ranger station.

“I would _never_ ,” Jon calls back. “I’m waiting for a usable pose. Look tough, like a frontiersman.” Tommy giggles, holds out one fist, exaggerated like a bodybuilder. Just before Jon cracks up, Tommy sees a hunger go over his face, an interest. He’s tired but he’s not crazy. It was something.

On the way out of town Tommy pulls over at Del Taco so they can get lunch.

“Now I really think I’m dead and in heaven,” Jon says, reaching into his plastic basket. “Tommy taking me to a fast-food place?!”

“I’m telling you, that fish taco was legit.”

“Legit for a place that inexplicably serves French fries with Mexican food.”

“Hey, that quesadilla disappeared pretty fast. Wanna explain to the class why you got a quesadilla _and_ a burrito?”

“ _Ugh_. Healthy food later,” Jon says, munching contentedly. “I can eat vegetables the rest of the weekend. Besides, I’ve been under duress.”

“Duress?”

“I was so stressed my bros planned me an intervention!” Tommy can already see Jon’s pinball mind flipping the true event into a joke, a story he’ll be able to tell onstage. “I think this is the first time in a year that I haven’t woken up and immediately looked at President Toupee Fiasco’s tweets. Well, there was this _one_ night… Close enough to a year, anyway.”

Tommy runs his thumbs over the edge of the table. It’s not like they have any promise between them, but. He doesn’t really want to hear about those other guys.

When they get back to the car, Tommy hands Jon his phone. “Time served.”

“Oh goody,” Jon squeals, and Tommy cracks a smile, feels his heart kick up a little.

On the drive back Jon reads him a bunch of emails and tweets and Tommy laughs along.

In Redlands somewhere Jon falls quiet for a moment. “So this was, uh.” The fade in his voice tells Tommy he’s turned away, looking out the window. “This was pretty nice of you.”

Tommy lets out a breath quietly. “Do you feel more relaxed?”

“Definitely. Even if it had to be extracted from me by force.”

Tommy laughs helplessly. “Well, that’s just you, Lovett.”

“Not sure,” Jon ventures, “that pinning me into bed is a productive long-term strategy.”

A breath catches in Tommy’s chest. He tries to recover. “You won’t believe it, but that wasn’t the plan.”

“You’re right. I don’t believe it.”

“Favs was supposed to come, but he had that, uh, christening thing.”

“Oh, the _christening_ , did he! Was it what you pictured?”

“Was it… Jon.”

“Well?”

“I only pictured the desert,” Tommy said. The truth seems so foolish falling out of his mouth.

“Did you.”

“Yeah. Weird town.”

“Too bad we didn’t see more of Joshua Tree. But,” Jon snorts, “I see it on Instagram all the time, so what’s the point really.” He falls silent, reading something on his phone that he doesn’t want to share.

Tommy clears his throat as the first rush of city traffic bears down on them. “So, can we talk about last night?” But when he looks over he sees Jon’s fallen asleep.

He sleeps all the way through the stop-and-starts and the odd knots that form around accidents, after Tommy puts on the radio low, as the sun is setting over Los Angeles.

Tommy thinks about the last time he went to the inn, driving alone to stand up at a wedding. How the desert uncurled like a parched tongue. How he stood in the little house that functioned as the lobby, waiting to pick up his key, and read about the Hollywood stars who ran away to the town for privacy, where they could swan by the pool and no one would take their pictures. Hangovers and heartbreaks both, cured by money and the arid climate. In the desert, like the song goes, you can’t remember your name.

He’d always thought it would be a nice place to take someone, Tommy realizes. But no one really fit.

He sees now his own traitorous heart, planning all of this. When Favs was involved he imagined them side by side in 3 lawn chairs, all bending over their laptops. But it would have been a waste of company time to burn 6 hours in transit, not working. Maybe he even knew that Favs wasn’t going to make it after all. What he’d really wanted was to be stuck there, with Jon, for an indeterminate time possibly stretching into forever. Wanted to always be rising up out of the pool and see him on the edge.

Jon only shakes awake when Tommy parks in front of his house, and then he’s slow to get up, his arms and legs moving as if through water. When he finally steps out of the car, Tommy extends his duffel bag and, of course, his phone, which Jon almost left in the cupholder. Jon looks dazed and his curls are plastered to his forehead, sweaty. He reaches for his things automatically, then blinks at them like he’s not sure what they’re for.

Tommy shuts the passenger-side door, all of a sudden restless in his body after the long drive. He leans back against the car. “Well,” he says, heels hanging off the curb. Feeling on display. “Last stop.”

“Thanks for the ride,” Jon calls over his shoulder, letting himself into the house.

Tommy leans against the car, stretching his calves, feeling bereft. He automatically takes out his phone to check email, but the screen goes all blurry in his vision. Feeling dragged by his own feet, he walks back around to the driver’s side and climbs in. Starts the car without thinking.

He goes back to the photos he took in Joshua Tree, all lensflare-y and dreamy. Some of Jon’s are pretty good. He wonders if he should text Jon any of them, for his Twitter bio.

He tries to swipe through to the photos Jon took of him, but there aren’t any. Instead, Jon was taking video the whole time, a trick he already pulled on Tommy twice on tour. Tommy rewatches himself, smiley and loose limbed. It feels so far away already.

 _“I would never,”_ Jon calls again from behind the camera.

He should get out of here. Jon’s neighborhood is pretty quiet, except for that one house, but they might notice a stranger dawdling on the curb. The rest of the weekend stretches out before him, arid, stupid. He could do some work, but that would only remind him of-- He can feel his face twisting up. He’ll be just fine, just like always.

He practically jumps out of his skin when there’s a knock on the window. It’s Jon. When Tommy rolls down the window his eyes are trained on his feet.

“Come inside, Tommy,” he says softly.

Tommy turns off the car, certain that he’s misheard. “Huh?”

“Come inside with me.”

Before he can think, out of Tommy’s mouth fall the words, “Are you sure?”

Jon nods and looks up, his eyes bright in defiance. “Could you. Please. Now.” His voice cracks in the middle of _please_ and it’s the most dizzying thing Tommy’s ever heard.

With a lump in his throat, he holds up a finger and turns the car back on just to roll up the window. Jon’s moved back a few feet as Tommy gets out of the car, nimble as he can muster, and he’s standing in the middle of the street. Like he needs someone. Like he needs Tommy.

The victim of a gravity he doesn’t understand, Tommy sways forward and pulls Jon in. He hears Jon sigh against him, so softly. His little hands make tracks across Tommy’s back, trying to gain ground. They’re in the middle of the fucking street and any car that drives by is going to have to swerve right around them, because Tommy _can’t stop_ running his hands down his sides, finding purchase on his hips, pressing out all the air between them.

“Jon,” Tommy says into his hair. Tommy wants to live forever in the space between what Jon needs and what he wants, where Tommy would get enough water and enough sun to live for hundreds of years, if only he could stay in one place. He doesn’t know if this is for the night and he doesn’t give a shit.

After an eternity, he lets Jon pull him around the car and across the front lawn. Inside the house it’s cool and shadowy and Jon groans when Tommy grabs his ass and squeezes, bringing him so much closer. “Missed you, missed this,” he mumbles.

“God. Can I…” Tommy starts to lift Jon, and Jon takes the cue and wraps his legs around Tommy, letting him lift him up. It’s electrifying to feel his dick pressed against Tommy’s, wanting.

Tommy fits his head into the hot hollow of Jon’s neck and shoulder, and their twinned breaths roar in his ears like a wind.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm still trying to figure out why they have fries at Del Taco. 
> 
> The song playing in the bar was LCD Soundsystem’s “Dance Yrself Clean,” from which the title is also taken.


End file.
